And I know we weren't perfect but I've never felt this way for no one
And I just can't imagine how you could be so okay now that I'm gone
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Mahira introduces me to a new staff member with the same polished appearance. "Ma'am, this is Ashima, and Ashima, this is a relative of Mr. Agasthya. Please help her find some clothes," Mahira says with a professional smile.
Ashima, who is just as pretty as Mahira, smiles warmly at me. She's dressed in a similar elegant uniform, her demeanor just as polished. "Of course, ma'am," she says softly. Her accent is American and she guids me towards another section of the store.
As we walk, I can't help but notice the luxurious surroundings. The clothes on display are stunning, each piece more beautiful than the last. Rich fabrics in vibrant colors—deep reds, royal blues, soft pastels.
Ashima's keen eyes scan the racks, and she carefully picks out a few pieces. She holds up a flowing silk saree in a soft sky blue, the fabric shimmering as it catches the light. "This would look perfect on you, ma'am," she says with a smile, her tone gentle but confident.
She then pulls out a sleek, midnight blue evening gown. "And this one... the cut is designed to enhance your figure beautifully. You should definitely try it on."
I nod, feeling a bit overwhelmed by her attentiveness "Thank you," I say, my voice softer than I intended. Ashima's genuine smile makes me feel a bit more at ease.
"Would you like to try these on?" Ashima asks, holding the clothes up to me as if already picturing how they'd look. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself nodding again.
"Yes, I'll try them," I reply, a small smile forming on my lips.
Ashima guides me toward the changing rooms, and I follow her, but curiosity pulls my gaze back to where Mahir is sitting. He's on a plush, luxurious couch, his posture relaxed, but something about the scene makes my stomach tighten.
Beside him, that lady 'Mahira' sits close—too close. Her long legs are elegantly crossed, but her short dress reveals more than just a glimpse of her smooth, shapely legs. One of her hands rests on the back of his neck, her fingers lightly playing with the hair at his nape. The other hand, more daringly, is on his thigh, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns.
She leans in, her lips close to his ear, whispering something I can't hear from this distance. As she speaks, she rubs her chest against his shoulder.
What bothers me most is Mahir's reaction—or rather, his lack of one. He sits there, seemingly unfazed, his expression unreadable. He isn't pushing her away or telling her to stop. Instead, he just lets her do as she pleases, as if this kind of attention is nothing out of the ordinary for him.
